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Clint comes back from the store across the Deny's and sees something out of the norm: Sam, his fiancé, is completely asleep on his couch.
The coffee table has paperwork, a mug and a laptop on it; the sink has a few dishes, mostly cups; and there's a half open, half eaten lunch bar on the counter.
Clint stands by the doorway, a grocery bag tucked under each arm, and stares like he's found a wild animal.
He's never seen him asleep. 'Like, actually saw him'. Whenever Sam managed to sleep, Clint was already passed out; and whenever it was morning, Sam was already awake. The closest Clint had seen were the few times Sam dozed off during a 'Blade Runner' rewatch, but a light nudge and he'd be awake again.
It became an odd cycle of theorizing that Sam didn't sleep at all with a short conclusion that he maybe suffered from insomnia.
Clint settles the grocery bags on the counter. 'This is a one time opportunity sorta thing, right?'.
He arranges the foodstuffs, cleans the dishes, tidies Sam's work then sits crosslegged on the carpeted floor with coffee-- watching his fiancé. 'It's not creepy, we're married, shutup'.
Sam has an arm tucked under his head while the other hangs off the edge of the couch, his snore is throaty, and the lines in his face ease so the scar tissue look harmless.
With all the 'cowboy-ing' and 'ass kicking' and 'rising at 5AM' Sam does, most people thought he was superhuman. Or functional. And sometimes Clint believed it too.
Other times, he saw the dark circles and wanted to hold an intervention.
It's a few hours before Clint notices his cup is cold against his thigh and no light is coming through the window. A part of him feels guilty for watching someone sleep so long-- the other half stands to close the window.
Just then, however, the coffee table vibrates and an emperor penguin sounds from Sam's phone. Clint flings to turn it off, steps half way into his coffee, knock his chin on the table and watches the phone skid to the floor.
He frantically turns to Sam.
His fiancé yawns, a sharp pop in his jaw, then shifts so his back faces out towards Clint.
Clint sighs.
He pulls his stained foot out of the cup and hobbles to the now quiet phone. The name 'Bucky' flashes as a missed call. Clint passive aggressively glares at the screen, locks the phone, stuffs it in his pant-pocket before closing the window and putting his cup in the sink.
When he returns to the couch, it's with a peach duvet he pulled from their bed and finds Sam in a semi-curled position that accentuates how small the couch is. Clint tries not to take a photo but, somehow, he winds up with quite a few. 'He can hate me later'. Clint lays the duvet over Sam.
His fiancé's eyes draw open.
'You gotta be fuckin--'
"Please don't wake up." Clint whispers but Sam lazily sits up, rubbing his eyes. "Why, you gonna draw something on my face?" He rasps.
"Not until you said it."
Sam chuckles, looking around with a bleary expression. "Time is it?"
"Go back to sleep."
"Don't give me orders, Hawkeye." He yawns then opens up the duvet, pushing himself to one end of the couch.
"I already--"
"Either you're coming in or I'm getting out."
Clint sighs, pulling one tail-end of the duvet. "Fine, but am not being the little spoon."
"Fine."
Somehow, they fit on the small couch --due in part to Clint voluntarily becoming Sam's body pillow-- and stay that way till morning.
When Clint wakes up, though, Sam's already gone.